


Speed dial 666

by TheFierceBeast



Series: Just keep talking [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Cas doth protest too much, Castiel is Not Innocent, Crowley talks dirty, Dirty Talk, Dom Crowley, Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, Hand & Finger Kink, Innuendo, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Phone Sex, Season/Series 06, Voice Kink, crowstiel, look at their fucking love connection, request for more Crowley phone sex pls, why is there not more Crowley voice kink fic I mean c'mon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 21:13:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7070488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas doesn’t understand phone sex – of course, he gets it in principle, but why would someone enjoy being tormented with the promise of something undelivered? Crowley decides to teach him the appeal.</p><p>Canon divergence where Crowley most certainly is in Cas’s contacts list. Set in some idealised fictional time around S6 when everyone is still (more than) friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speed dial 666

**Author's Note:**

  * For [days4daisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/gifts).



 “That Sam?” Dean asks. “Tell him we’ll be another hour, tops. Oh, and ask if he talked to the guy’s wife yet.”

“It’s not Sam.” Castiel looks at the number lit up on his mobile’s screen. 666.

When he glances, a little guiltily, back at Dean, Dean raises his eyebrows like ‘I’m already here; if it’s not Sam who the Hell else would be calling you?’ but says, “You gonna answer that or what?”

“It’s an associate,” Castiel explains, tightly, even though Dean didn’t pry and Dean just shrugs and turns back to scrolling through eye-boggling reams of microfiche whilst the archivist gives them both a glare of silent disapproval. Tapping ‘answer’, Castiel says, “Hello.”

“Hello, Cas.” That voice, so familiar now, sends a little jolt of something through him even when he knew who it was calling. He glances over at Dean, but Dean isn’t looking.

“I’m busy. What do you want?”

“Sweetheart. I can’t make a social call?”

“Is that what this is?” On the end of the line, a throaty chuckle that sends inexplicable heat to Castiel’s face. “This is not convenient timing. I’m in a library. My understanding is that quiet is required here.”

“So, be quiet. I’ll do the talking, you listen… although,” Crowley’s voice drops lower in register; Castiel’s stomach follows. “You’re not very good at keeping quiet, are you, Cas?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Castiel lies. His eyes flick, side to side, scanning for eavesdroppers. He lowers his voice. “I am perfectly capable of discretion when required.”

“Mmmm. Kept all of our little secrets, haven’t you.” It’s not a question. On the other end of the line, there’s a rustling noise that should be innocuous enough but has Castiel’s eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“What do you want?”

“Oh, you know. World chaos. A puppy. You, back in my bed, covered in white-chocolate ice-cream.”

Castiel screws up his eyes, until they’re narrow slits beneath his lowered brows, his mouth a pressed-thin line. “That sounds both inclement and unsanitary.”

His voice, like smoke, hot and curling. “You choirboys don’t have much imagination do you?” A velvet touch of words: Castiel swallows; it feels loud. “I assume it’s a waste of my time to ask you what you’re wearing?” Crowley’s smirk is audible and Castiel rolls his eyes, angling away from Dean’s curious glance in a gesture that he senses must look unwarrantedly guilty.

“You assume correctly.”

“Want to know what _I’m_ wearing?”

Castiel sighs, feeling strangely on-edge. This is a stupid game. “A black suit. Am I close?” He’s quite proud of the sarcasm he injects into those last few words. The tail of his eye catches Dean frowning in confusion and he takes a step further from the table, trying with all his might for casual.

On the other end of the line, Crowley makes a small, interesting noise. “Ding-ding. Full house. What has he won? Hmmmm.” His purr is accompanied by a gentle creak, like somebody shifting in an upholstered chair, and something unusual coils tighter in Castiel’s gut; he licks his lips. “You guess correctly though. The usual black. Bespoke, not that you’d appreciate that.” His voice smoulders. “It’s the little touches that make a garment, you know. Engraved horn buttons. Every one of them undone. Custom commissioned lining – woven, not-”

“What?” Castiel interrupts him.

Crowley, echoes, “What?” All innocence. One the other end of the line, that faint creak again, a shuddering hitch of breath.

“Where are you?” Castiel asks, curtly.

“Throne room.” Another shaky low intake of breath.

“Are you alone?”

“Mmm.” Luxuriating low rumble. “Yes. But…”

“But what?” His jaw feels tight, the words ground out.

“The doors aren’t locked. Someone could walk in at any moment.”

Castiel closes his eyes. “Dean. Excuse me, I have to take this call.”

“You alright, man? You look a little…” Dean raises his eyebrows, dubiously. “Weird.”

“No, everything’s fine. Somethings come up.”

“Has it indeed?” The voice on the other end of the line asks smoothly as Castiel strides out of the building. The door swings shut behind him.

“I was not referring to my penis, Crowley.”

“Shame. It’s such a lovely one. Perky. Eager. _Oh_ -” The grunt on the other end of the line fades, as though Crowley has moved away from the receiver, or maybe even dropped the phone. Irrationally, Castiel finds himself pressing his handset tighter against his ear, as if it will get him closer to the source of his current irritated bemusement.

“Crowley..?”

“ _Yessss_ …”

The drawn-out hiss of that affirmation makes Castiel close his eyes, a tug like a thread drawn tight from crotch to gut. Biting his lip, he flicks the skirts of his coat closer around him, for all the parking lot’s deserted. His own voice comes out as a suspicious growl. “Crowley, are you masturbating?”

“Whatever…” breathless, panting softly, “gave you… that idea?”

“I do not understand the point to this.”

“You understood the point pretty damn well two nights ago, stud.”

“I understand the _principle_ , Crowley.” Oh, does he ever: these past few months in flagrante with the King of Hell have been a learning curve steep and quick enough to give him whiplash. “I do not understand why people enjoy being tormented with the promise of something undelivered.” He sounds grumpy; he knows he does. Because he’s aroused, in the parking lot of a small-town library somewhere in Colorado, and Dean is inside the building so he can’t very well fly straight to his torturer and _press_ him down against that throne and _touch_ and _hold_ and _taste_ and – Castiel bites down a little groan of his own.

On the end of the phone line, Crowley’s voice is soft and thick as midnight. “Am I tormenting you, angel?” He’d never admit it, but Castiel is hanging on those quiet dragging breaths. “Are you hard for me? Thinking of me? My hands on you, my mouth?”

“This is poorly timed.” He sounds and feels like he’s been eating sand.

“Where are you? Tell me.”

“Colorado. A library.” He squints at the sign above the nondescript door. “Reidsville. I’m in the parking lot. There’s a blue Chevrolet Malibu, a red Volvo. And a dumpster.”

“Be still, my black heart – you sure do know how to sweet-talk a girl.” His voice drops again, that register Castiel can feel between his thighs. “Where would you _like_ to be?”

“Inside the building, assisting Dean with researching historical local missing persons.”

“You sure?” Rough heat. Castiel turns his shoulders guiltily towards the wall of the building, to hide how the heel of his palm has drifted between his legs. “Not here, on my lap..?”

“I’m sure. I’m going to end this call now, Crowley.”

He doesn’t end the call. Miles, possibly a dimension away, Crowley moans, low and needy. “Why’s it so difficult for you to admit that you like this? That you want me? Is it because I’m every base, depraved degradation your garrison brainwashed you to hate, little soldier?”

Biting his lip, Castiel says, “Do not flatter yourself. You’re not that bad.”

“Oh but darling, you know I can be bad. I can be a _very… bad… boy… indeed_.” Leaning his forehead against the wall doesn’t help. The brickwork feels cool, abrasive, grounding, and yet Castiel still can’t focus on anything except that husky voice. “Aren’t you even a little bit hot and bothered, angel? I know I am. All worked up, just thinking about you… what I want to do to you… You never did have the most vivid of imaginations though, did you, pet? Would you like me to paint you a picture?” It isn’t until the pause drags that Castiel realises he’s been hanging on those words. He clears his throat, quietly – can’t help it, such a human habit to have picked up – and apparently Crowley takes that as answer enough. “I’m in the throne room. Alone. I’m sitting on my throne.” The words are quiet, measured, and Castiel wants to say _you already told me that_ but somehow the accusation won’t make it past his throat; he finds himself licking his lips instead. “My jacket is open. And my shirt. Spread wide. Tie undone. I’m running my right hand down my chest. Slowly. Thinking of your hands on me. Would you like me to send you a selfie?”

“No.” Goodness, is that his own voice? “Keep talking, Crowley.”

He can _hear_ the smirk. And maybe there _is_ something to this phone sex business after all, because Castiel can also, suddenly, picture those leonine eyes, lit up with mischief. “Your wish is my command, love. Of course, any other commands you’d like to make: I’m very… _open_... to suggestion, right now.”

“Get on with it.”

“My, my. So impatient. We need to do something about that. _Ah_ -!” Castiel closes his eyes. These raw sounds of pleasure, so immediate, but so remote; it’s frustrating in a newly delectable way he can’t quite process. “I have one leg up. Draped over the arm of my throne. Can you picture it, mmm? Use your imagination. Legs spread. Trousers open, cock out: I do so hope nobody walks in on us; it would be terribly incriminating. My hand’s moving lower, angel. Should I touch it?”

“You’re a demon. You don’t care about incrimination.”

“Scolding isn’t answering, Cas.”

“Yes.” The smallest whisper. Crowley purrs, triumphant, down the line.

“Yes, what?”

He can’t believe he’s saying this, gruff-voiced and red-faced. “Touch it.”

The pleasured moan that provokes makes Castiel squeeze his thighs together: unbearable. His dick jerks, hot and rigid, pressing uncomfortably against his clothes. He glances back across the deserted lot to the library doors, feeling irrationally sure that Dean somehow knows what he’s up to, that the whole town has a tip-off as to his illicit activity. Too far away, the King of Hell is panting, hoarse broken sounds that are beautifully close to Castiel’s name. “I’m touching myself, angel. My hand’s wrapped around my cock. Stroking. Slow.” Castiel’s hand makes itself into a fist, punches lightly against the wall behind him, but it doesn’t help a bit. “You know how I like it? Slower than that. It’s torture. I wish you were here. I want your hands on me instead. Your filthy mouth. Just _made_ for sin. You make me so hard, angel. The things I’d do to you. The things I’d let you do to me.” He trails off again, into another shameless moan that spikes hot desire through Castiel’s gut.

Castiel swallows, thickly. His knuckles scrape the rough brickwork. Reticent murmur; “What would you let me do?”

He could swear that he hears obscene little slick sounds. Crowley’s voice, ragged with lust. “A mirror on the ceiling, a devil’s trap under the bed. Does that wet your whistle, ducky? Would you like me like that? Shackled by magic to a California Kingsize? Trapped, powerless, at your mercy?”

His erection throbs. It’s becoming nigh impossible to keep his vocal tone neutral. “I do not understand. Why would you desire that? I could kill you with a thought.” The noise Crowley makes at _that_ statement is indescribable: Castiel shivers, even though he feels like he’s burning up. There’s a twinge between his thighs, a tremble low in his belly. “Am I to take it that you fantasise about this as a… gesture of trust? Trust through… vulnerability?”

“Not as green as you’re painted, are you love?” Castiel frowns, but bites his lip and doesn’t ask: he gets the gist. “I’m not dim, you know. You’re powerful.” The way he breathes that word. “More powerful than me, and that’s saying something. You really don’t know what a turn-on that is, do you? Of course, I’m cleverer, but you… you’re incandescent.” Quicker now, his shallow breaths. Castiel turns further towards the wall, the hand tucked beneath his coat pressing against his aching hard-on. “A force of nature all boxed up inside that pretty meat-suit. It’s like putting a leash on a hurricane. You could vaporise me with a blink of those big baby blues. But you don’t. Why don’t you, angel? Do you like how I touch you? How I pin you to my bed and take my pleasure? Your grace burns me, did you know that? When you’re begging beneath my fingertips, when you come sobbing my name, it scours my essence more than a thousand years in the pit could, but nothing, nothing is enough to make me clean-” Castiel’s dick jerks in sympathy at the ragged noise that tears down the line, short, hungry grunts softening to sated gasps as Crowley’s breathing regulates, quietens. Castiel realises after a minute that he’s holding his breath. “Well, that was-”

“Strange.” Castiel rasps.

“-nice.” Crowley finishes. He’s harder to read now. Castiel can’t tell if that’s fondness, or amusement, or even embarrassment, except the King of Hell doesn’t get embarrassed. Does he? “Not too shabby for a first attempt. You need to work on your input though, choirboy. Don’t be a stranger. TTFN.”

Castiel looks at the phone in his hand, the screen flashing, disconnected. He feels disconnected too, the bubble of fantasy around him suddenly pops and he’s standing alone next to a nondescript civic building in an unfamiliar town, with a raging, inconvenient erection. His frown draws tighter. This is unacceptable. But there’s no way he’s walking back into that library like this. Dean said he required a further hour for his research: this problem will not take that long. With a rush of air, Castiel disappears.

 

It’s easy to find an empty room. An anonymous motel, hushed and cosy, letting in dull, rusty light through the closed orange drapes. Maybe he should feel some guilt, but Castiel is past that now: he’ll leave this place exactly as he found it, but for now he has an insistent, perplexing itch to scratch so that he can go back about his dutiful business.

The mattress sinks beneath his weight, springs protesting. It’s nothing like Crowley’s huge, draped bed in his state apartments, or any of the penthouse suites in which he’s entertained Castiel since their… partnership, began. Maddening creature. Castiel’s hand moves, between his legs, squeezing himself through his slacks. Crowley is so far beneath an angel he should be invisible, not – this. He feels his breath coming faster now, vessel responding in that confusing, addictive way that mortals have. He fumbles open his belt, button, zip, the thought occurring oddly late that he could just wave away these obstacles with a thought. It’s better like this. Crowley always likes to undress him, piece by piece… Castiel bites down on a groan, palm wrapping around his own hard flesh. Hot, slick – Crowley likes it when he’s wet. He closes his eyes, lips forming soundless around that name. Why does he want him so? His demon. Dangerous and fascinating and aggravating, and more demonstrably loving towards him than any other creature he knows… “Crowley.” He murmurs the name; his voice sounds almost pained, thumb slipping over the head of his erection, pulse ticking in his palm.

“You called?”

Castiel’s eyes flick open, focusing in the dim orange light on the trim figure leaning against the wall by the door. “You… no…”

“Oh, but I think you did.” And Castiel hates him, and adores him. That languid, irritating, saunter towards the bed, and Castiel can feel his own mouth hanging open in mortified surprise, not at getting caught red-handed pleasuring himself, but because it feels like an admission of weakness. Weakness for this demon who is now crawling, predatory, up the bed towards him. “Naughty, angel. I had more of an effect on you than you were letting on, now, didn’t I?” Castiel swallows, says nothing. His erection still clasped in his palm is showing no signs of flagging. Crowley sits back on his heels, eyes surveying him lazily in a way that makes Castiel feel utterly naked even though he’s inside his almost-fully-clothed vessel. “Please. Don’t stop on my account.” That’s it. Castiel places both palms on the faded coverlet, starts to wriggle upright, and then Crowley’s hands are on his, pinning him by the wrists, and he forgets in a familiar instant that yes, of course he could easily smite this demon into Purgatory. “Please don’t stop on my account,” Crowley repeats, but his intonation is different, a strange reverence inflecting the words. His hands linger, thumbs caressing the insides of Castiel’s wrists and Castiel swallows again, more difficult this time, his cock bobbing against his belly where he’s just barely pushed his buttoned shirt up out of the way in his eagerness to lay hands upon himself. Crowley’s fingertips drift, trace the thin strip of stomach visible above the gaping waistband of Castiel’s slacks and Castiel shudders, sweet sensation skating across his skin. Crowley’s vessel has – _Crowley_ has – wonderful hands. Broad and deft. Strong as they hold him down against the mattress by his hips. Castiel swallows a moan. He wants to close his eyes, but he can’t stop looking, doesn’t _want_ to stop. “What _am_ I going to do with you?”

That voice surrounds him like smoke, like a tangible texture of the air, warm and teasing. “Touch me,” Castiel manages. His whole vessel feels tight, thrumming like a plucked string.

This earns him a low chuckle from the king. “It was a rhetorical question, pet, but that works too.” The muscles of his belly twitch as Crowley slides warm hands around his hips, pushes his slacks further down, bunched up with his underwear.

Castiel groans, lifts his ass to allow Crowley his way. “You too.”

The demon tilts his head, eyes dark. “What was that?”

“Don’t…” _Don’t make me spell it out._

One corner of Crowley’s delicate mouth quirks up. “If you like. I’ll show a bit of mercy, just this once – always were more one for visuals than words, weren’t you, angel? Always a _watcher_.” He is. His hand sneaks back down to squeeze his dick as his eyes follow Crowley’s hands, slipping his own tie loose with quick, efficient tugs. Unbuttoning his shirt, half-baring his chest, broad and furred, to Castiel’s attentive, _appreciative_ gaze: Castiel’s hand moves quicker. Crowley’s golden eyes flash with amusement. “Ah-ah. What’s the rush, love? Make it last and I’ll make it good for you.”

“What are you do- _ah_ ” His back arches, hips lifting off the bed as Crowley’s fingers find their way between his legs, stroking up the sensitive cleft of his arse. It steals his breath. Crowley smiles, wicked and pretty. His big, capable hands urge Castiel’s thighs wider, pushing his clothes down to tangle around his ankles. It’s an undignified position to be observed so keenly in, but right now Castiel couldn’t care less; his insides are rioting.

“That good for you, sweetheart?” The words smoulder from his tongue.

“Yes…” Those fingers tingle, some blasphemous kind of witchcraft. Or perhaps just talent. And Castiel gives in to it. The king sinks down beside him, curled on his side, chin resting against Castiel’s shoulder, hand working between his spread thighs. Castiel on his back, chest heaving, fist squeezing against his inevitable crisis. Lips brush against his ear, whispering words that he doesn’t have to recognise to know their meaning, filthy promises and endearments.

“One finger… I could ruin you just like this.” Castiel groans, hips rocking. Crowley’s hands are strong, his fingers thick. The one that’s currently sliding inside him withdraws completely, pushes back in deep enough that Castiel can feel Crowley’s palm cradling his balls, an exquisite tormenting rhythm that has him writhing. Crowley’s teeth catch on his earlobe. Tug gently. His voice rasps. “Two…” Castiel can’t help himself: he whines, hips jutting. A second finger presses slickly inside him, delicious dull pressure, opening him wide, aching sweet drag inside. Something in this vessel feels like it’s bursting, blooming and he’s moaning immoderately now, a constant, dissolute jumble of feeling-as-noise, wordless pleading, and he doesn’t care. Pressing down on Crowley’s rutting fingers, the demon’s voice in his ear murmurs, “Three…” and Castiel turns his head sharply, desperately, crushing their mouths together. Crowley groans, deep and blissful, as they exchange breaths, lazy-slow wet lick of tangled tongues, waves cresting and ebbing: Castiel has a tide inside, an insistent pull. Crowley’s fingers thrust, harder, thick and satisfying. Castiel’s hand on his cock speeds up again and this time Crowley doesn’t stop him, just presses his thumb firmly behind Castiel’s balls so that his mouth gasps open, head arching back against the pillows, hand slipping, erratic, body bowing like he’s been struck by lightning, and Crowley’s fingers press so hard and deep right there, and he’s coming in spurt after delirious spurt, a wild cry echoing in his throat.

He’s still high on it when Crowley grabs his hair, beautifully rough, and tugs him into another demanding kiss, shuddering and pliant and languid. His whole body feels like it’s shimmering. When Crowley eases his fingers out, Castiel moans into his mouth. Carries on keening softly, hips circling, as Crowley rubs a thumb, gentle but firm, around his oversensitive hole. His fingers slow with their kiss. Less desperate. Warm hand sliding from between his legs to rest, heavy, on his hip. Crowley’s lips move from his lips to press against his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Castiel exhales, a long ragged breath. Crowley regards him from where he’s lying at his side, eyes half-lidded and expression that can only be described as ‘fond’. “I think that makes us even.” _TTFN again, then_? A thought assails him: Castiel raises his head suddenly off the pillow. Crowley raises an eyebrow. “What is it, Lassie? Little Timmy stuck down that well again?” That sarcastic drawl delivers a lot less sting when Crowley’s thumb is tracing gentle circles on Cas’s bare hip. Not for long. He’s clothed again in a thought, clean and tidy.

Crowley blinks at him and Castiel presses a quick, for-now, kiss on his lips. “Dean is still in the library. He’ll be wondering where I went.”

The last thing he hears as he takes flight, almost too quiet to register, is the King of Hell’s amused chuckle.

**Author's Note:**

> There is like, next to no Crowley phone sex fic, and given his capacity to mouth off and THAT VOICE I do not understand this glaring omission and wish for it to be rectified asap. Days4daisy agreed this point with me on Tumblr so this is dedicated to her.
> 
> Also, there should be more fingering. In general. That is all.


End file.
